Four Seasons
by Deathangel113
Summary: From rebirth to the end it is life.
1. Chapter One: Spring

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property of J. K. Rowling. I hold neither ownership nor affilitation.**

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><p><strong>Chapter One: Spring<strong>

The air smelled different. It tasted different. The change was subtle and was quickly forgotten as it gradually dominated the senses. He did not dismiss it so quickly. Everything was new. Almost, it was as if he had been reborn. He was seeing the world with new eyes. The colors seemed brighter. Each noise was louder. He was noticing things that he had never noticed before like the nest of blue birds that had taken residence outside of his window.

The birds' song greeted him when he woke in the morning. For several long minutes he would lie in bed enjoying the sound. They seemed to remind him that he was safe. When he eventually dragged himself out from beneath the duvet he would look out the window and see the mother bird nestled protectively within her test; warming her eggs. There were three eggs in total. He had managed to catch a glimpse of them one morning. The sight had caused him to smile.

A new year. A new life. A new chance.

All of this was perfectly excellent. He should not be here now, he knew. As a former Death Eater he should be in Askaban. Potter had made certain that he had not been locked away though, as had Snape. His former rival had testified at his trial, stating that he had not identified him to Bellatrix. Meanwhile Snape had left behind papers that had revealed how he had been forced to join Voldemort's ranks. It felt as though he should not have been kept free. Almost, it was too unreal. Freedom was a reality though and it almost felt appropriate. While he knew that he did not deserve such a thing he had been given a chance. Kingsley, the new Minister of Magic, had decided that he should be given his freedom and he had been. The rest of the ministers had allowed it for some reason. That fact was wonderful.

There were no more burdens. He no longer felt the need to look constantly over his shoulder. Breathing was easier now.

The previous year had been horrible. With the encroaching summer there had been little life left to flourish. That spring had been one of death. The air had reeked of decay. He had hated it.

Voldemort's presence in his house had driven him mad. The man had taken over. He remembered seeing the fear in his parents eyes. His father had looked decrepit thanks to Askaban, but he had aged more with the presence of the Dark Lord. Lucius had not been the only one who had aged. His mother looked years older. Voldemort had threatened him everyday with the death of his parents. He was certain that his parents had both been threatened with his death, but they would never admit to it. His Aunt Bellatrix had been kinder. She had trained him and as a result he had become very adapt in shielding his mind from the Dark Lord. That had probably helped to preserve his life. Even his aunt had her moments though and she would scream at him. Thankfully, he had never been cursed by her. However, her husband had not been as lucky. He pitied the man. At night he could still hear his screams. For some reason the screams of his uncle were louder than those of all who had been tortured in the mansion.

The worse part had been Nagina. He had stumbled more than once upon her when rounding a corner. That had not been so bad. No, what had been horrific was when he had woken one night to a pressure on his chest. When he opened his eyes he had seen her. He had not screamed out of fear that she would kill him. She had left shortly before the sun rose. He did not sleep for several weeks afterwards. Even now his dreams were of the snake slithering over him.

Hogwarts had been almost as terrible as the manor. Wandering the corridors of his former school had been rather upsetting though, no one would have known it when they looked at his face. Everything had been torn apart. Debris blocked his path and sometimes he had found it necessary to crawl over a particularly huge piece of rock. Then there were the bodies. Most had been tucked away into empty classrooms until the proper time came for them to be carried away by mourning families. Some bodies had not been found until after the battle; hidden under rubble or blasted away so that little remained. One, he had found. The empty eyes still haunted his nightmares.

That time had faded into the past. The empty, glass-like eyes had not. People had moved on. He had not.

It was a new day though. It was a new year. The time of healing had passed and now it was time to make a new life.

His mother was not wasting their new time. She was moving forward and to a better future. Each day she looked more like she had once been. Every now and then he would catch a glimpse of the fearful woman, but those moments were growing fewer in number. She looked younger. Once again she was the Lady Malfoy.

The same thing needed to be done by him. He needed to make a new life. A chance had been given to him and he could not waste it. He needed to prove that he was a different person than what most people saw. He needed to prove that he was a different person than who he saw in the mirror. Snape had seen that person.

The man had protected him. He had made things easier. Snape had protected him when he didn't deserve it. He owed more to the man than he did even to Potter. The prat thought that he owed him. He was right, but he owed Snape more. It killed him that he wasn't able to protect Snape. Still, he could do this now. He would work to prove himself. He would show everyone that he deserved to be free. He would prove to himself that he deserved to be free.

It was a new day and it would start with this morning.


	2. Chapter Two: Summer

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property of J. K. Rowling. I hold neither ownership nor affilitation.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Two: Summer<strong>

Torture. This is what this was. The heat was unrelenting. Each time that he had ventured outside he would feel as though he had been struck with the Cruciatus Curse. Breathing became difficult. His skin would tingle. Sweat would start to bleed from his pores. It was horrible.

He needed to be very careful those few occasions that he was brave enough to venture outside. More than once he had found himself lying in his bed. His alabaster skin would be red and swollen. Each time that he moved he would be in horrendous pain. His skin would crinkle like parchment.

To cry out was very tempting. He never did though. The pain was something that he would suffer through. He had to suffer through it.

Far too many suffered because of him. His father was dead because he could not kill. His mother tried to convince him that it was because Lucius had condemned himself and that was why he was dead. He didn't believe it.

Although only a few months had passed he still remembered when his father had been sentenced to death. He had never seen either of his parents so pale. There was no fear in their expression. All emotion was absent from their faces. There had only been indifference. His father had only patted him on the head. He had said nothing to him. Lucius had grasped his mother close to him. They were both silent. After a few minutes they had stepped away from each other and his father had been led away.

Three days later a new headstone was in the family cemetery. Lucius Malfoy had joined his ancestors thanks to the kiss of a Dementor. His mother's face was that of stone. He could only stare at the marker of his father's grave and wonder why he had died while he and his mother had been spared. Later that night he had heard his mother weeping as he passed her bedroom.

She never cried in front of him. He pretended that he didn't know that his father's death had affected her so deeply. She pretended not to see the bandages hidden by his sleeves. They both went along with the charade. Somehow it was easier, but that was another lie. It was breaking him down.

At night he would lay awake in bed. It had become impossible to sleep. The summer was sweltering. Whenever he managed to drift to sleep he would find himself woken. His body would be coated by a thin layer of sweat. He felt as though he were on fire and maybe he was. The duvet would be tossed aside and he would lay, sprawled out like an eagle in flight. That was the best way to cool down he found, but it took a long time. The room was like a stove and opening the window was not an option. The night air was warm. A few times he cast a spell to cool himself, but that did not allow him to sleep. By the time that he was cool he would start to think and then his thoughts would go to everything that had happened. Once or twice he would force himself to sleep. Each time that he did though he would be woken within seconds by the nightmares.

Granger was often the focus of his dreams. He never saw her, but he could hear her screaming. He could hear his aunt laughing and he could hear Weasley shouting and pleading for her release. She still had the scar of Mudblood carved into his arm. He had caught a glimpse of it the last time that he had been in Diagon Alley. For a long time he had stared at her. It had crossed his mind to go to her and apologize. She might have even listened. He had not though. A group of witches and wizards had chased him out of the alley. He had come home with a cut on his temple and a broken wrist.

His mother had tried to heal her himself. He had refused. She had tried to take him to a healer. He had refused again. After a few minutes of stubborn silence on his half and pleading on hers she had given up and she had left him alone. After a few hours he had allowed her to heal his wrist. She didn't speak to him, but he could see the relief in her eyes. He didn't let her heal the cut. Instead, he allowed it to heal on its own. It took about two weeks for that to happen. He pretended that he didn't see the pain in her eyes whenever she looked at the scar.

The pain was his punishment. Each cut, each burn, each broken bone was his atonement for what he had done.


	3. Chapter Three: Fall

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property of J. K. Rowling. I hold neither ownership nor affilitation.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Three: Fall<strong>

Once upon a time he liked autumn. Almost, it was like spring. The days were not too warm or too cold. The nights were cool and comfortable. In some ways he liked autumn more than he liked spring. There was something welcoming in the colors. Yes, he was aware that everything was slowly dying. The death was beautiful though and they were not truly dying. There was life in it. He knew that everything would come back. Now though, he could hardly stand the sight of the turning trees.

Golds. Reds. Oranges. Reds.

The colors reminded him too much of Hogwarts. They reminded him too much of the rivalry that had helped to ruin him. Autumn reminded him too much of the family that had sacrificed too much.

He had never liked the Weasleys, thanks to his father, and those feelings had hardly diminished. In school he would sneer whenever he saw a flash of red hair in the corridors. They were thorns in his side. Any honor that they held as pure bloods didn't exist. He could argue with his younger self about that matter now though. They stole the attention of the school and they hardly deserved it. The family had managed to grab Potter and lower him to their level. Most of those feelings had faded. Still, he sneered when he saw them. The only difference was that now when he sneered it was a lie. Now, he pitied them.

Fred was dead.

The twins had been a pain in his arse. More than once he had fallen prey to their tricks. He still remembered the humiliation of being cursed during their flight from Umbridge and from Hogwarts. He still recalled the first prank that they had played on him. For a full day he had been forced to walk around with Gryffindor color hair before Pomfrey had managed to turn his hair back to its natural color. Despite all this he could not help but to respect their audacity. A part of him had even admired them. Thankfully, his father had never learned of that.

He remembered making jokes about them. The prime time was not in the corridors or in the Great Hall, but in the common room. It was always after everyone else had gone to sleep. Normally, they would discuss the day first and then move on to teasing their rivals behind their back. Sometimes they had put down money on certain matters. The biggest subject in the black book was death. They had all made bets that Fred would be the twin who blew himself up and that he would be dead first. There had been a general consensus among he and his friends that George was the smarter of the two and that he had better sense. Blaise had laid down two galleons. Pansy had put down one galleon. Both Crabbe and Goyle had put down five galleons that both twins would blow themselves up. Theo had refused to made a bet. He himself had matched Blaise's bet.

They had been right; only, it had been Rookwood that had blown Fred up.

Never before had he felt so guilty. He knew that neither he or his friends had been the cause of the twin's death. It was not right of him to act as though he had been the one to murder Fred. In a way though, he felt like he had. It had been him who had let the Death Eaters that night in the astronomy tower. Because of him Dumbledore fell and Voldemort had finally be able to enter Hogwarts. He had been forced. That was something that he tried to tell himself each time that he guilt became too much. He being forced was not entirely true. There had been a choice. Dumbledore had given it to him. He should have taken it. Far more deaths could have been prevented if he had. His aunt and the others had appeared though, and he had stayed silent rather than accept the offer.

Why did he have to be such a coward?

Over a year had passed since Fred had died before he finally managed to step into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. His oath to never visit the shop had failed. The instant that he entered he knew that he didn't belong. For a long time no one noticed him. He could have slipped away, but he didn't. Instead he stood there and stared at the interior of the shop. He had never been in here before, but he had heard the stories. It was as wonderful as everyone said that it was. For a few seconds the complete hilarity of the shop had brought a smile to his lips. Then he had been brought back to reality. In the corner of his eye he saw a flash of red hair. At first he had thought that it was Ron. He had heard that the younger Weasley was working here now. It had not been, but he had seen him later. The bastard had glared at him, but he had not spoken thankfully.

George had greeted him. There was a smile on his lips, but he couldn't help but feel as though it were fake. Perhaps it was. He wondered briefly how difficult it was for him to look happy everyday when his other half was buried six feet under the ground. It was strange shaking George's hand. George had draped an arm around his shoulder and he had led him through the shop. The portrait of Fred had cursed him from behind the counter as they passed it. To say that it was strange having George act so friendly to him would be an understatement. He had expected to be cursed. Instead George had teasingly asked him why a Malfoy would be caught dead in here. He hadn't answered. What was he supposed to say?

They had ended up in front of the Muggle tricks section. George was explaining one or two things for his "ignorant mind," as the former twin had said. He had apologized. George suddenly fell silent. When he glanced at him he saw that George was staring at his feet. After what felt like hours George had asked him, "Why?" He hadn't known so he stayed silent. George had only patted him on the shoulder and then he invited him to join him and have supper with the rest of the family.

That was painful. He had not deserved that.

Then again, the war was over.


	4. Chapter Four: Winter

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property of J. K. Rowling. I hold neither ownership nor affilitation.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Four: Winter<strong>

Once, he had liked the blanket of white. The cold, brisk air had left him feeling refreshed. He would take long walks. A few times he had tried ice skating. His father had never known about that. Muggle activities were strictly forbidden in his household. That was why he would sneak off whenever his father was away for business. He would rent ice skates from the Muggle who ran an ice rink and there he would practice. Oddly enough he was good at ice skating. He took great pride in that fact just as much as he hated himself for it. After his father died though he bought a pair of ice skates and made use of the frozen pond on the property. His mother had frowned at him when she found out. After a while though he had convinced her that it was worth trying. She seemed to enjoy it. He could never be sure. All that he knew that she seemed to have a natural talent for skating just as he did. Once or twice he had caught her enjoying the Muggle activity late at night. The fact that she seemed to be happy lifted his spirits.

There was something calming about the snow laden days. The frozen and dead trees held a surreal quality to them. He wasn't sure what exactly it was. It as certainly picturesque. Perhaps it was the perfection of a dead winter and the knowledge that everything was still alive beneath it all. There was all the silence. It was seemingly endless and felt as though it could be unbroken. That was a lie though. There were those who would laugh and play, breaking the beautiful quiet. On the grounds of the manor though, the silence was as it should be. Winter was truly winter.

He hated it.

The winter only symbolized death for him now. It stood for the cold cemeteries, the gray headstones.

His mother had reminded him of a snow maiden when he had found her lying by the lake. Snow flakes were slowly covering her body like a blanket. Her tears had frozen on her cheeks.

For a long time he just stood there. It was too much to believe. Even after she had been taken away he had tried to understand. There had been no note. There was nothing. He knew that he should have seen that she was in pain. In fact, he had seen it. He had just not looked further. As a son he should have done something to help her, but he had not. He had failed her.

The ground was frozen when he had buried her. She was finally with Lucius again. That was what she wanted, he knew.

Hardly anyone had attended the funeral. Blaise, Theo, and Pansy all appeared. They had adored his mother, especially Blaise. He could hardly get him to shut up about how wonderful she was when they were in school. Though, he could hardly blame Blaise for talking too much. He often bragged about his mother. She had been a strong woman and incredibly kind. The latter could be hardly believed. Everyone thought that she spoiled him. That was far from the truth. She was always giving him the attention that his father forgot to give him.

The Greengrass family had appeared. He had thanked them for coming afterwards. As he shook the hand of Mr. Greengrass he wondered what the man would say when he told him that he had no plan to marry Astoria. Lucius was dead. There was no reason for him to follow through with the arranged marriage.

George had been there. That had shocked him. He had arrived just before the ceremony had begun. George had only patted his shoulder after he had given him a questioning look. His presence didn't make sense at all. Why would a Weasley show up at a Malfoy's funeral. It was too much for him to figure out now about why George would be standing at his side. There were other facts that needed to be realized.

She was gone and he was alone. He no longer had a mother. Now, he was an orphan. He wondered if the emptiness that he felt was the same thing that Potter felt. He found himself regretting insulting Potter's parents even more now. This was painful. It wasn't right. He supposed that in a way it was better. His mother wouldn't have survived if she had to bury him. Would he survive though? He was certain that he could. He hoped that he was strong enough.

It was cold out. Snow had started to fall again. He couldn't bring himself to stay away from her grave. At least twice a day he brought flowers to her. Almost, he felt as though he could bring her back that way. He was more than aware that he couldn't.

The new year was almost over. Narcissus had died on the seventeenth of December. The twentieth was the day that she was buried. On Christmas he had learned that he had earned more freedoms and that he would not be watched as closely as he had been. Kingsley had even gone so far as to invite him to the Ministry. A position had opened in the Department of Mysteries.

He should not have been given any of this.

_Fin_


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